Cyanosis

Night after night, I cloister myself
like one shipwrecked in an ineffable pelagic deep.
There is within me a cerulean that belongs not to the firmament,
nor to the ocean —
it is the lugubrious tincture of an absence,
a frigid breath that, in its lethargy, still respires.
I pilgrim through the labyrinths of my own mind
as through Murmuring Dunes whispering obliterated epithets;
and each step founders
within the mire of memories I never breathed.
There is the acrid scent of saltpeter corroding my thoughts,
as if my weeping preceded the genesis of the flesh,
as if nostalgia were the original mold of my bones.
My epidermis, for brief instants, glows
in a pale and azure bioluminescence,
not as a beacon for the lost —
but as a betrayal of the void pulsating in my veins.
And, as I finger the edges of my own form,
I witness the horror:
an unbridgeable abyss lies between the substance of the gesture
and the translation of the feeling.
And yet, I persevere.
I graze my knuckles upon the texture of silence itself,
unveiling the contours of an envelope alien to me,
like an explorer of a cursed fiefdom
embedded in his own marrow.
A fleeting warmth emerges, of an indecent crimson,
daring to maculate the cold —
yet, it soon dissolves
into a cobalt more thick, more tumular,
like India ink spilled upon the eternity of nothingness.
I covet my own being
not out of narcissistic enchantment,
but for the chronic sterility of the other.
In this solitary conclave,
sacredness and the most abject ruin fuse —
it is the morbid kiss upon the face of a mirror
conscious that the glass shall never love back.
The outer cosmos, alien and clamorous, insists on existing,
while in my cloister, the captive tide reigns,
a muzzled ocean that refuses to breach its shores.
Unnamable aberrations float beneath the silt of my thoughts,
lethargic, silent,
irradiated by a phosphorescent melancholy
that spreads its grief without craving indulgence.
I am forged in an atavistic indigo,
a matrix unmapped in the cartographies of old,
a pigment exiled upon the escarps of time.
I carry in my chest the umbrageous longing
for that which never came to be,
and which, despite its unreality, summons me
with the lethal sweetness of a home.
At times, I hallucinate the friction of another body —
not as redemption,
but as pure and brutal tactile contrast.
Skin against skin,
the mortal flame against this glacial infinitude.
However, even such delirium
dilutes into specters of sapphire and mortuary turquoise,
and I return to my seclusion,
I always return.
For there rests a lugubrious and gentle peace
in surrendering to one's own abyss.
I no longer struggle against the fury of this blue deep.
I consent for the flumen to swallow me,
to convert me into a translucent stained-glass,
a near-non-existence.
Beauty resides in that which is perpetually flawed,
in the yearning that echoes without ever touching the other,
in the body that learns to be, in a single breath,
both mausoleum and scorching wasteland.
And thus, I crystallize:
neither awake, nor annihilated —
merely suspended
in a devouring azure
that is my executioner and my genesis.
If out there some light glows,
its rays do not pierce my night.
And I no longer covet them.
I have learned to contemplate the gloom
with sealed eyelids,
to touch the emptiness
as if it were living flesh,
and to idolize
— with posthumous devotion —
the spectral silence that has made of me its home

Written by:
Bruno Reallyme

Bruno Silva, known as Bruno Reallyme, is a visually impaired writer who found in writing an extension of his perspective on the world. With a background in Economics, Accounting, and Management, he explores various genres, such as poetry, romance, suspense, and horror. His writing seeks authenticity and the profound identity of "reallyme"—"really me"—revealing in each word a sensitive, critical, and passionate universe of narratives.

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